Help, I'm Alive
by Sardonic Wit
Summary: He's always been good at reading people. So is she. However, neither of them are prepared for what they see in the other.


This is a response to last night's, February 4th, episode. It seems like Frigne is turning into a love triangle.

Really?

No, thank you. Bring me the science, and even just Olivia and Peter being friends than this soap opera much.

I also really dislike Altlivia/Fauxlivia/Alivia, and Anna Torv plays the difference masterfully. But I still don't like Alivia. She... She can go have Frank, her rose-rimmed eyes, and easy smile. I'll take our world-hardened Olivia any day.

This story is me exploring the emotions and frustrations obviously felt by both parties as a result of the developments of the season. I really want this to get angsty, and I don't think I achieved it in this chapter. However, I have no ideas for a continuation of it, so your feedback is appreciated.

No infringement intended, Fringe is by Fox.

* * *

Since she came back, everything was a blur.

It almost seemed, at times, that this world sped quicker than the other, and she was the one caught up in all of the mess, and it should not have been. This was her world, her apartment, her team, her job, her life. But it seemed as if Alivia had taken over that as well, like a cancer that had taken root in her life. She had reached out, arms dripping like a virus, and tainted the familiarity that was her old life. Now everything was different, and she had to re-learn it all, especially the relationships she was in.

Broyles was the same as he always had been. Perhaps he treated her a bit more delicately lately, but she wasn't one to call him on it, since she figured it was just caution. He had been a bit shook up upon seeing his own corpse. However, he was a constant strong figure, unwavering even in this hellish whirlwind.

Astrid, Nina, and Walter all treated her somewhat different as of late. Astrid had this sadness in her eyes occasionally when she noted the terseness present between Olivia and Peter. She attempted to be a good friend for Olivia, and had even offered to help Olivia shop for some new clothes. Obviously, Olivia had declined, but the proposal was there all the same. Nina was the same woman who headed up Massive Dynamic, the scientist Olivia respected for both her aid to the FBI, and personally. She too, had been giving Olivia furtive looks when she thought the blonde wasn't looking. Walter, too, had changed. It was subtle things, more so than the rest, but when his head perked up when the door opened, he looked sad for a second before welcoming Olivia. Alivia had written kind things about him in her journaling, and noted that pastries and sweets were the way to the scientist's heart.

Peter was the one who she could have expected to remain steadfast, unfaltering, and supportive when she got home. Outwardly, perhaps he was. He had apologized, and they hadn't had a private talk since, but Olivia saw the looks he gave her. They were sickly sweet, and she was reminded of the disease that was Alivia, but they were full of longing and passion. Olivia doesn't remember John ever giving her those kinds of looks, or Frank, from her brief time as Alivia. But maybe that was for the better, because Peter never gave her those looks before she left. They were obviously meant for her double, a woman she couldn't bring herself to hate, since Olivia was not self-pitying, but she certainly disliked the woman.

In retrospect, all the things that Alivia had done were forgivable, save one. Olivia had opened her home to Rachel and Ella at one point, and never minded when Rachel messed up her things. The food in her fridge and pantry was of a kind she did not like, but that's because there rarely was food, anyways, so it mattered not to her. As a child, she willingly shared her bed with Rachel, and as an adult, was never adverse to Ella coming in the morning, either. All of these things, she could deal with, and forgive. Even her job, Alivia seemed to have done adequately, which Olivia was thankful for. However, the one thing Olivia wouldn't forgive was the stain on Peter's heart now. Or, perhaps she shouldn't call it a stain, since the man obviously missed her and pined for her double, but Alivia had ruined it all the same. She had taken the chance that Olivia never had, that chance with Peter, and corrupted it. When he looked at her in the lab, did he see Alivia's red, or was he reminded of Olivia's blonde? Olivia supposed she couldn't blame him for it, after all, they really did seem to be in love.

Now, as Olivia sat at her kitchen counter, leaning against the countertop as it dug beneath her ribs, she nursed a glass of whiskey, and let her thoughts wander further. Thinking back to her time on the other side was never too painful, except when she chanced to look down and see those scars, or imagine hints of black marker ravaging her pale skin. This time, though, she closed her eyes and wondered just why the hallucination of Peter had disappeared. She certainly hadn't stopped needing him - that was for sure. It was him that had gotten her home, kept her safe, and helped her live. Although, it would be weird to have one Peter that only she could see, and one for everybody else. Had she even told Peter about her hallucinations? No, she didn't think so. But the hallucinations of John had stopped, too. Her dreams, so long tortured by his presence, were finally gone, and again she cursed her luck for falling in love with two of her partners.

Wait, love? Was this love? Certainly, she cared for Peter, but he obviously loved another woman, one he couldn't ever find in Olivia. Alivia was warm where Olivia was cool, laughed when Olivia would have just ignored his jokes, and brightened a room when Olivia would have sunk into the background. Olivia knew – she knew this for a fact. She had been Alivia, and remembered. It was hard sorting through all of the memories, but they had begun to fade now, almost completely. But that much she remembered. That was for certain.

No, she didn't love Peter. How could she? That would be cruel of her, to even entertain thoughts of herself replacing Alivia in his arms. He and she were from the same universe, after all. They would have been destined for each other if Walter hadn't stepped in. And now Olivia, gatekeeper of the universes, was alone in both of them.

* * *

Snorting herself out of thought, she downed the rest of the whiskey before padding over and putting the glass in the wash, heading to bed in the MIT shirt she hadn't quite been able to give up. Its faded greys were almost a replacement for hallucination-peter, and she kept the shirt hidden in the bottom of a drawer, except for nights like these.

Knocking at the door roused Olivia even further, her heart picking up its beats, attuned to her stress. If it was the FBI, she would have heard the phone ring from her pocket, if it was a friend – at this, she snorted again – they would have called first, too. Olivia never entertained sudden guests.

Snatching her gun off the side table where she kept it and her badge, she peered up to the peephole, looking out to the hall. It was illuminated with light, but it hone on no one, and Olivia was confused for a moment.

A noise scuffled behind her, and she whipped around, gun aimed directly at where she thought the source was, yelling "Freeze!"

A man stood there, gun trained on her, face expressionless. She repeated the order, followed with a "Drop your weapon, FBI,", but the figure paid her no heed. She ducked to the right, and he fired, clipping her in the left shoulder. Crying out in pain as the bullet nicked her muscle, she fired off two shots, hitting him in the side once, and the next buried in the wall. He appeared undeterred, and her eyes widened as silver fluid trickled out from him, forming a deadly rivulet down his black business pants. He lunged, swinging the gun across her face, hitting her temple and cheekbone. Olivia was unable to command her legs, and they crumpled as colors played out in front of her eyes. Barely able to see past the dots of black and splotches of color, she saw him level the gun at her forehead, and weakly lifted her own gun, firing into his head before his fingers could pull the trigger. He crumpled faster than she had, and his corpse draped itself over her, mercury elegantly beading up on the MIT shirt, now ruined. She scrambled blindly, unable to see a thing, and felt the weight atop her leave. Hands flung blindly towards her pockets, and she found her phone, hitting the third speed dial.

A sleepy voice greeted her on the other end with an "Olivia, it's a bit early for a booty call, isn-", he said, tired mind not quite ready to act appropriate.

"Peter, Peter, Peter, there's a shapeshifter here and he was in my house and shot me but I killed him and my head hurts and my shoulder and…" She rambled, stress from her earlier thoughts clouding her focus and normally calm reserve.

Rustling sounded first on the other side of the phone, and Peter launched himself out of bed, pulling on pants ad he cradled the phone with a shoulder, "Olivia, I'll be right there. Did you call Broyles?"

Silence answered him, and he heard the thump of the phone on the floor, and doubled his speed, taking the stairs three at a time. Walter was in the kitchen like usual, slumped over something before he drowsily asked "Peter?" as the aforementioned man rustled for keys, opening the door.

A single word was the scientist's response, "Olivia!", as the door slammed shut. Peter ran to the car, opened the door, and started the engine before beginning the ten-minute drive to Olivia's apartment, calling Broyles on the way.

It took him five minutes to get there.

* * *

He rushed into her apartment, and almost tripped over the shapeshifter, slipping slightly in the puddle of fluids. Some of it was silver, but it was tainted with red, and Peter immediately moved from the obviously dead shapeshifter to Olivia, who appeared to be alive still. Putting his fingers to her neck, he found a thready, but present pulse, and her breath was quite shallow. There was blood everywhere, though. It looked as if the left half of her face had the skin torn off, although further investigation only revealed a severed artery near her temple, but it didn't look like it was life-threatening, although a nasty bruise and scar would form eventually. The main source of the red that adorned her hardwood floors was a wound in her shoulder, which was still pushing blood out at a rate Peter wasn't quite comfortable with. Tipping her gently over to her back, he noted her shirt. It was spilled over with silver and soaked through with her own blood, but the faded MIT print was there, and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Furrowing his dark brows, he muttered "Olivia," and brushed some now-red hair out of her face. He hated that red now. It was the purity of Olivia, stained with the trials of this world and the next. Her eyelids flickered open for a second, but they were unfocused and seemed to see him faintly. A twitch of her lips revealed that his assumption was right, but the face furrowed into a wince as her eyes closed again, falling slack. "Sleeping on the job, huh?" he questioned the unconscious woman, before hearing footsteps behind him.

* * *

Ever the alert man, Henry Goldson was a father of two, and none of their antics slipped past his eye. His pretty wife was waiting for him at home in bed, and he certainly didn't want to be up at this hour. But being an FBI agent, especially one for Fringe, he was prepared to be up at all hours of the night. This time, it was yet another call about Agent Dunham, which were becoming more and more frequent lately. She was a good agent, and he accepted her as a contributing member of the team and his superior, but he wondered exactly what was so special about her.

However, nothing of his knowledge could have prepared him as he yelled "FBI!" and entered into her open apartment. A feral snarl came from the floor and he looked down the barrel of a gun at a man crouched over the fallen Agent Dunham. The man seemed to have blood on his hands, certainly hers, but this guy… Wasn't he one of the scientists? What was he doing here?

Before he could question him, the man – Peter Bishop, he realized – relaxed and dropped the gun, hands in the air, and stood up. "She's alright, but she needs to go to the hospital. She was unconscious when I found her, which was about two minutes ago. She called me seven before." He announced, and Henry nodded his head, waving for the other three men to enter the room, followed closely by Broyles.

"Bishop. What happened here?" The imposing man questioned, and Peter replied with a shrug, looking almost lost.

"I don't know. Like I said, she called me, said there was a shapeshifter but she killed him. I don't know what they were after, and I doubt she does, either." Peter replied succinctly, watching with anticipation as they loaded his Olivia up on a stretcher.

Broyles noticed his tenseness, and compared Bishop's pose to that of a protective dog. His ears were picked up, eyes erratically searching for any threat to Olivia, and made to follow the EMTs as they left with her. Broyles almost made to stop him, but halted halfway through the motion, nodding for Peter to go. He didn't think that getting in Bishop's way was a good idea, that man if anything, was tenacious and would get what he wanted. Besides, he didn't condone office relationships but the way the two of them had been acting lately put everyone on edge and made silences awkward. He was ready for it to be normal again.

* * *

Peter followed Olivia to the ambulance, and was assured by a medic that she probably wouldn't wake up until later, seeing as he detected intracranial bleeding. The man made for his car, and drove home, brushing past Walter. This time though, the older scientist followed him up to his room, and asked, "Where's Agent Dunham? Aren't you bringing her to bed?" Peter snapped a quick negative at Walter, who had the decency to look abashed. Grabbing something from his room before heading back down, Walter followed Peter. "I'm coming too! Where are we going, though, son? We could use some groceries."

"Walter, please. We're going to the hospital; Olivia was hurt by a shapeshifter." Walter whimpered slightly, and Peter said, "Not too badly, she killed him before he could kill her." At this, Walter's tense body relaxed slightly, and he was silent the rest of the way.

Rushing into the hospital with Walter on his tail, Peter was quickly pointed by a nurse to a waiting room. "Miss Dunham is in surgery," The middle-aged woman said, "She had some bleeding and it was putting pressure on her brain. They're patching up her arm, too, and making sure there are no complications from her concussion."

To say Peter was anxious was an understatement. He knew that his Olivia had been having way too many close calls, and he wanted nothing more than to swoop in and protect her. Perhaps it was male instinct, perhaps it was his love for her, but he didn't bother analyzing it. He had spent many sleepless nights angsting away at the thought of himself and 'Alivia' as his Olivia called her. He wanted to explain to Olivia all of the reasons, but he knew none of them would be enough. He had lost his chance at her, at happiness, and loathed Alivia perhaps more than anyone else for that. Sure, he was angry that she had tricked him, conned the con man, but the real root of the reason was that she had corrupted his Olivia, stained her blonde hair red with lies, hatred, and blood. And just when things were settling down, this had to happen. Olivia would be out of field commission for a few weeks, and being confined to the lab together now was awkward, and he didn't know how to break that. However, the man was not willing to give up on her, to lose this last shred of hope. He knew that Olivia had moved on from him, and would be content just to be her friend again. He could love her without being her lover, and would take whatever she was willing to give him after his ultimate betrayal.

"You can see her now, she's stable. There were no complications," Rand out across the waiting room, and Peter was only jarred out of his thoughts when Walter lept up beside him to follow the doctor. Brain catching up, Peter moved fluidly, walking into the room where Olivia lay. She was so prone on the bed, covered in hospital blankets, and a bloody bandage wrapped on the side of her temple, another on her arm. Right then, Olivia reminded Peter of delicate lace, and he moved forward to brush her hair away from her face, almost fearful that she would break. But he noted the color of her hair under his fingers. Not red. Not hers. And certainly not stained with blood.

So he knew she would not break. His Olivia was the strongest person he knew, and she would get through this and wake up soon enough. Looking down at her, Peter was reminded of Alivia's sleeping face. It was always peaceful, content, and with a smile on her lying, blood-colored lips. Olivia, even now in her unconsciousness, had a brow furrowed, and she looked alert, corners of her mouth turned slightly down. This, this was his Olivia, and he wanted nothing more than to claim those lips, to kiss those lids that covered eyes which had seen so much pain. But he restrained himself, and turned away with one last feather-light touch on her cheek. Pausing slightly, he placed the lump of grey fabric on the table beside her, the one he had gathered from home.

Then, Peter walked out without looking back, content to seat himself in the waiting room until she awoke and wanted to see him. He could wait forever.

* * *

One green eye appeared slowly from underneath a fan of short lashes. Not recognizing the surroundings, its twin flashed open quickly, and a fast beeping noise rose from the monitor beside her. _A hospital?_ Why would she be here?

The events of the night before clashed down around her, and she thought again, rays of light hitting the hospital blanket. She remembered the shapeshifter, and calling someone… Peter. And he must have come, otherwise she would have bled to death. Her head and shoulder hurt, but she turned to look at the side of the bed, expecting him there as he had been before.

He was not.

There was, however, a shirt on the bedside table, with the faded lettering of MIT emblazoned across the front.

* * *

That's it for this chapter.

I'm not totally sure if I should continue or not - especially since I have no overarching plot ideas. So reviewing with suggestions will help me to update.

And I will, if I/you guys get a good idea, I'll keep writing.


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